


From Time to Time

by viicariously



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Comfort/Angst, Confused Bucky Barnes, Domestic Violence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Bucky Barnes, One Shot Collection, Protective Bucky Barnes, Reader-Insert, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-20 07:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8240884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viicariously/pseuds/viicariously
Summary: Unrelated Bucky/reader oneshots, most taking place while you and Bucky are hiding out from HYDRA recapture, but others in different timelines. Some will be fluff, some will be angst, heavy triggers will be mentioned in the beginning notes. Feel free to make suggestions or requests.





	1. Unfamiliar

**Author's Note:**

> Just something that wouldn't get out of my brain. As I say in the summary, I may leave this here or I may add additional chapters which would also be standalone one shots. I'm not totally decided yet.
> 
> ETA: Totally decided to make this an ongoing thing. I don't know how many there will be, but for now, it's continuing.

It happens this way from time to time; you expect it, but that never makes it easier.  
  
There was something in him that they just couldn’t fix, some tiny but key bit of the limbic system that HYDRA had too thoroughly tampered with to ever return to full functionality despite everything he has tried.  
  
And so, there are nights like this.  
  
Nights when you walk through the door with aching feet, thinking of nothing more than removing your work attire and collapsing into the too-soft but always inviting mattress on the floor that is your bed, and hoping that he’ll be able to sleep tonight, but find yourself walking through the door to be greeted by being slammed against it.  
  
You drop your keys to the floor as metal digits dig into the skin of your throat, applying just enough pressure to read clear the threat of how easily your windpipe could be crushed. You can’t see his eyes but you know what they look like – far away and full of terror, murky blue pools greyed over with concealed panic.

In that moment, he doesn’t know you.  
  
“Bucky…” your voice is a wheeze, barely squeezing through the narrow space his vice grip allows you to take in air, and you’ve chosen to use what little you manage into your lungs to say his name. It’s always the same forlorn hope that hearing your voice will somehow snap him back to reality, back to himself.  
  
You can just make out his silhouette against the light that filters through the windows, covered over with newspapers so old you can’t make out the dates anymore. A necessary eyesore to give the illusion that either of you are safe in hiding, that _they_ can’t see you, but given what the remainder of the apartment looks like, the interesting selection of décor is hardly out of place.  
  
“How did you find me?” he demands, voice loud and harsh in the relative silence. A woman, your upstairs neighbor most likely, is shouting Romanian words you don’t understand and somewhere, a baby is wailing, but these types of sounds are so constant that you’ve learned to drown them out entirely.  
  
“I don’t _care_ about the mission, anymore. Where is _she?_ ” Fingers close more firmly against your source of air and white sparkles color the edges of your vision. Timidly, your hands travel up to close uselessly around his wrists, a slow and calculated ascent up his arms so as not to further engage his defenses.  
  
“It’s me, Bucky,” you croak out, throwing every ounce of discipline you have into remembering that this is not him – _he_ would never hurt you. For all his strength and lethal ability, _he_ would never lay so much as a steady hand on you. If anything, he holds you like the most fragile, delicate thing the world has ever known, as though he’s afraid to leave his fingerprints smudged across you.

Your eyes are adjusting, or perhaps your memory and imagination have decided to collaborate and fill in the gaps, but you can read the look on his face with ease. Those eyes search your face, hardened and full of unadulterated hate at first, knowing in his core that you are not who you say you are. You can’t be, because he’s seeing someone else entirely.  
  
Your own eyes plead back – _remember. Please, God, remember._  
  
And just as the sensation of panic and truly beginning to suffocate begins to creep up your spine, something shifts.  
  
The fog doesn’t lift all at once – it never does – but something in those blue pools staring back at you begins to question and try to claw its way back to the surface. You’re still mentally pleading with him to push, push through and remember where he is, who you both are. It happens slowly but it _does_ happen.  
  
As always, the fear and disgust settle in when at last there is room for them in his mind and in his eyes.  
  
He swears in Russian and jerks his hands away from you with such force that it’s as though your skin has burned him. He’s backing up into the darkness with his hands running through his hair and you’re taking shaky deep breaths as you collect yourself, leaning against the door.  
  
It didn’t last as long this time and for that, you’re grateful. That does not mean the damage will not be every bit as severe however, and you find that the comedown from the altercation is always the worst part.  
  
“I’m fine,” you offer gently, rubbing absentmindedly at the spot where his hands had closed around your neck, wondering idly if it will bruise. You know it doesn’t matter what you say; he won’t believe you, regardless.  
  
He doesn’t speak, backing away from you until you can hardly make out his form in the dim lighting. He doesn’t need to say anything for you to know what’s running through his mind. You’ve heard it more times than you can stand to recall.  
  
“Hey, _listen_ ,” you prod, slowly moving through the space between you until you’re close enough to gingerly place your hands on either side of his downturned face. “It’s okay. _I’m_ okay.”  
  
He shakes his head but never meets your eyes. You suppose it’s a small victory when he doesn’t shake off your touch.  
  
“I didn’t mean to. I thought – ” he doesn’t finish the sentence. You think you can hear the sound of unshed tears in his voice, but he still won’t allow you to meet his eyes, so you can’t be sure.  
  
“I know.”  
  
He thought you were one of _them_ , someone sent to drag him back to the hell he was killing himself in an attempt to escape.  
  
Your thumbs brush gentle circles on his cheeks and your suspicions are confirmed when they come away wet; your heart breaks for the thousandth time, pain always new and always deep. You’ve grown to expect this, but it never really becomes commonplace.  
  
You’re not one to excuse violence of a domestic sort. He’s not hurting you because he’s angry or because you’ve disappointed him – he isn’t even doing it because he can’t control himself. The truth of the matter is that, no matter how much work he has done to better himself, there are parts of him which remain broken. Though he seems content to try, you both know he cannot hate those parts of himself out of existence, and so, you have to contend with them.  
  
“I could have killed you,” he all but whispers, half reminding you of his capability, half admonishing himself. His voice is drenched with guilt, laden with the self-loathing he carries with him at all times.  
  
“I know.”

He is still and frozen underneath your touch, the tension beginning to slip from his muscles in microscopic increments as he begins to give up fighting you.  
  
“… One day, I might.”  
  
_You know_.  
  
You’re not some lovelorn character in a novel, nor even an idiot. You’ve known since the beginning that it would take no more effort for him to end your life than to blink and that one day, there was a very real chance he would not recall the shape of your face or the sound of your voice in time to return to himself.  
  
But you’ve never been one to adjust your life according to the ‘maybes’, and so, you find yourself here day after day, never considering leaving to be a genuine option for either of you.  
  
“You’re getting better, you know. It doesn’t happen often, anymore,” you attempt to be reassuring, reaching up to run your fingers through the unruly dark waves of his hair. It’s been at least a month, maybe two since the last night like this one. It’s the longest streak you’ve managed in the year and a half you’ve been gambling this way and you, for one, are proud of his progress.  
  
You’re alone in that pride. He makes a sound that is somewhere between a sob and a humorless laugh, neither option pleasant, but he doesn’t push you away like he usually does. Uncharacteristically, a metal arm tightens almost imperceptibly around your waist.  
  
“You shouldn’t stay,” he murmurs into the shell of your ear, “here, with me, I mean.”  
  
You’re not sure even he believes the words, the lack of conviction in his voice almost palpable. Either that or he has finally learned that you won’t be persuaded; if he wants to go the ‘ending this for your own good’ route, he must know by now that he’ll have to bite the bullet himself. You had made your mind up a long time ago that you weren’t going anywhere and you don't have the energy to argue the merits of why anymore, not tonight.  
  
“Let’s go to bed,” you insist, trailing your hands down his arms until your fingers fold into his as you tug him in the direction of the bedroom.  
  
You’ll sleep – something you both need desperately – and tomorrow will be a new day.  
  
If there’s one thing that you’ve learned about your relationship with Bucky, it’s that there are more days completely and totally unlike this one in every way than days which are similar.  
  
“We’ll have to talk about this tomorrow,” he contends weakly, allowing himself to be led along by you begrudgingly.

You mumble something that must vaguely sound like an agreement, although you both know you will do no such thing. You won’t discuss it because you never do; you’ll push it as far as humanly possible to the edge of your mind so as not to revisit it, so as not to look at him any differently, and you will not bring it up again.  
  
Because, at the end of the day, it isn’t always like this – it just _happens_ this way from time to time.


	2. Normalcy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff city. Bucky laments not being able to give you what he thinks you deserve, but perhaps he has some surprises up his sleeve.

There are times that living with him is like living with the human equivalent of guilt plucked straight from the soul.  
  
He is abysmal at hiding it when one of his spells had dawned over him, the heaviness of the feeling coloring everything from the way his posture stiffens just slightly to the way his smile refuses to reach his eyes. You’ve spent enough time watching the former soldier to see the telltale signs long before he’s willing to speak about it.  
  
You know why he’s moody this time, and for once, it’s an issue of such abject normalcy that it’s almost amusing:  
  
A comment you made had struck him the wrong way.   
  
_‘So what if we don’t go out like normal couples?_ ’   
  
You’d said it in the most lighthearted of manners, intending to show your utter nonchalance about the subject, but instead, wounding him deeply. Almost immediately, you wished you could recall the words and swallow them whole as his face froze up and the tiny crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes pulled taut as they always did when something did not sit right with him.  
  
You meant the indifference; none of it was for show. You knew going into this that nothing would ever be entirely normal and you had accepted that. You are in love with a former assassin who spent years of his life under the puppeteering of the soviet government – normal had never been something you’d been pining for.  
  
You feel a touch stupid for not thinking about how it must have sounded to someone who still longs for normal, deep down.  
  
But that was a week ago and still to this day, it seems he has been unable to let it go. He isn’t _angry_ with you, but there is a definitive something going on behind his gloom. You don’t know how to remedy it, and not for lack of trying.

You’ve upped your praise and affection, making quite certain he knows how he affects you in the tiniest of ways. You’ve ensured he’s aware of how it makes your heart stop every morning when his arms close in around your waist as you drink your coffee near the filtered light of the window, how you can’t say no or even form words when his lips find the hollow divot of your collarbone. You’ve told him how you appreciate his trips to the market to make sure you’ve got fresh fruit in the apartment, knowing how dangerous it is for him to be out at all.  
  
You’ve gone above and beyond with attempting to convey that normal or not, he is the entirety of everything you never knew you wanted, and yet, he is still in a perpetual state of dejection.  
You don’t give up on the pursuit of reawakening his happiness, but there are things to be done. You still have a standing shift at the diner downtown and though it pains you to compartmentalize his upset, it’s easier to approach gently when you’ve had a break.  
  
Still, at the end of the day, you want nothing more than to see him – pissy mood, or not – so you’re anxious as your key turns in the lock.  
  
It’s cold in the apartment and you’re not surprised. It’s almost winter in Romania, for one, and the heat doesn’t function in your building. Every last resident in the place is squatting, no landlord to complain to, so the trade-off is even.  
  
You are, however, a little surprised that the electricity appears to be out. At least, you _assume_ it is, given how dark the apartment is and the plethora of candles that are placed about on the floor.  
  
The rigged cross-wiring from the legal tenants a building over usually doesn’t give out, and you could have sworn you saw the neighbor’s lights on, but stranger things have happened, you muse to yourself as you drop your keys onto the table by the door and set about fastening the collection of deadbolts that help keep up that illusion of safety.

You’re surprised when you’re greeted by a genuine _smile_ on the face you’ve been longing to see.  
  
“Hey,” he speaks quietly, grinning in the flood of yellowed candlelight that washes over him. He’s cleaned up – trimmed down the stubble that he often neglects on his chiseled jawline, pulled his unruly dark waves back from his face. It’s enough to cause your heart to flutter in your chest, a wash of pink to touch your cheeks.  
  
You want to ask what’s going on, knowing _something_ has to be afoot, but instead, you place your arms around his neck to admire him more closely. Drink in the expression of happiness and – nervousness? You’re not entirely sure – that paints his features while you’ve got the rare opportunity to do so.  
  
He leans in and kisses you, soft and timid but still quite thorough about it, and you can’t bite back the urge to ask, anymore.  
  
“What is this, Buck?” you ask softly, beaming smile showcasing your absolute delight with whatever it was.  
  
“I’m taking you on a proper date, doll face,” he speaks in a tone you’re not sure you’ve ever heard before, which surprises you considering you’d begun thinking you’d heard them all. He sounds confident, suave, and it makes you weak in the knees.  
  
“I don’t understand,” you murmur in response, no person ever having looked so cheerful about being confused.  
  
He leads you by the hand to the center of the living room where the candles form a circle on the hardwood floor, motioning for you to sit on the couch. You choose the furthest seat to the end, none too fond of the way the middle sags from having supported the two of you sitting too close and entangled for so long.  
  
He disappears into the kitchen, leaving you alone and curious in the dimly lit room momentarily. When he returns, he’s holding an oddly shaped bunch of purple flowers in one hand and a paper takeout box in the other.  
  
And suddenly, you understand all too well.  
  
He presents the grouping of flowers – several rich purple crocus banaticus, petals triangular and beautiful, one of Romania’s native flowers – to you with a chivalrous bow and for a moment it’s of no difficulty to picture him back in his own time, when such a gesture would have been utterly expected. You cover the full on reddening of your cheeks self-consciously with one hand and accept the bouquet with the other.  
  
“You didn’t have to do this,” you whisper, though the lilt of happiness in your voice makes clear the difference between ‘ _didn’t have to_ ’ and ‘ _shouldn’t have_ ’.  
  
He settled into the crater that is the middle of the couch, setting the box of food down on the floor and sitting cross-legged facing you. The boyish smile fades and is replaced by a serious, almost somber expression.  
  
“You deserve normal. Going out, being shown off, living life the way it’s supposed to be lived. It’s not what you’ve got, and as long as you’re with me, it’s not what you’re going to get,” he says words you get the sense he’s practiced. Your lips part to interrupt him, derail where this conversation seems to be heading, but he raises a metal hand to stop you before continuing.  
  
“ – _but_ I can try. It won’t be perfect, it won’t be much, but it’s what I’ve got. And you’re my girl, so I want to give it to you. Because I love you.”  
  
Tears have sprung to life of their own accord in your eyes, something that causes you to bite your lip as you’re simply not a crier. Fitting, as he doesn’t often say those three little words. His hands circle around yours and you squeeze back tightly, trying to commit all you can about this moment to memory.  
  
It’s significant, touching. The simple act of making a trip specifically to acquire all the things he needed to pull this off could have cost him his life, and yet, he saw it as important enough to take the risk just to give you what he thinks you need.  
  
But you’ve got to tell him, again, just so that he knows –

“If normal is anything but having you, I don’t want it. _You’re_ what I want, no matter what that looks like,” you remind him softly, eyes bright and almost cartoonish with utter delight.  
  
He searches those eyes for a moment and you wonder if he’s trying to spot any uncertainty he thinks you might have on the matter, but you know he won’t find any.  
  
“How’d a girl like you get so stuck on a guy like me?” he asks, lips pulling up into a smug smirk as he brushes the back of his hand across your flushed cheek. He’s slipping back into the flirtatious, smiling man you’ve missed for the past week, laying on the charm in absolutely copious fashion.  
  
“Oh, shut up,” you giggle, lunging forward to plant a kiss squarely on his lips before he can tease you any more.


	3. Conflicted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a customer at work comes on to you, you ponder momentarily if you'd be happier with a more normal life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a ton of actual Bucky in this chapter, more or less just thinking about him for the most part. Next chapter will most likely be super Bucks heavy to compensate.

Working in a restaurant in a country where you’ve only gathered a basic understanding of the language was not particularly where you once saw your life headed. Your feet ache daily and your back is not particularly happy either, but you knew it was necessary; both you and Bucky had to eat one way or another and a man who was supposed to have been several decades dead was not a particularly employable prospect. When he’d asked you to go with him, you had responded only with ‘ _anywhere_ ’, and so, this was where you’d found yourself.  
  
The job itself wasn’t all bad and even if it was, you would never complain aloud.  
  
There were days, however, that made you reconsider this policy of silence.  
  
You’ve learned quickly how to spot a native English speaker, eyes squinted as they thoughtfully pored over the menu in a vain attempt at figuring out the pronunciation and definition for each item. It’s always refreshing to meet someone as out of place as you are and they usually tip quite well, too.  
  
The man is young – blonde, mid-twenties at most, backpacking luggage strewn at his feet – and an obvious tourist. He’s handsome, you’ll admit to that, with that ‘All American Boy’ look to his youthful features.  
  
You approach the table without assumptions and greet him in Romanian, the confusion in his dark eyes making evident that your first instinct was correct.  
  
“Do you speak English?” you ask, pen hovering over your notepad as you prepare to take his order.  
  
“Oh, thank God,” the man laughs, shoulders sinking back in relief. “You’d think I’d at least be able to order _coffee_ in any country I visit, right?”  
  
“This, ‘ _cafea_ ’, that’s coffee,” you supply, pointing at the word on the menu. “And this happens more often than you might think.”  
  
You, for example, barely passed a high school foreign language class, and yet you found yourself living here full time. The language was simply something you picked up as time went on, though Bucky had been of tremendous help with the matter, too.  
  
He tells you how he takes his coffee and you return with the order momentarily – black, two sugars. You’ve got no other customers at the moment, hardly anyone showing up so close to closing time, so when he begins to make small talk, you indulge him.  
  
“So, are you American? How’d you end up here?” he asks between sips of the drink.  
  
“I am. I, um, traveled after college, just fell in love with the place,” you lie easily enough. It’s at least partially true; you did travel after you completed your studies, and you definitely fell in love, though it was with a some _one_ rather than a some _where_. You can’t expound on the truth, not that anyone would believe you if you could.  
  
The truth is that whatever life you led in America is a thousand years away from you, now. Your life has become secrecy and hiding, squatting in an abandoned apartment building in hopes that the former soviet government does not manage to reclaim the love of your life who had once been their trained attack dog.  
  
Nothing about _that_ sounded at all believable and you didn’t even consider throwing in the tidbit about the metal arm.  
  
“That’s what I’m doing,” he tells you excitedly.  
  
From there you talk of America – your home state, which is coincidentally the same place the stranger spent summers growing up, his hometown that you’ve never visited. You listen to his travel itinerary and the places he’s seen, then recommend other decent places to visit in your area. You reminisce on the wonder of greasy American style burgers and all the things you hardly ever stop to consider yourself homesick for. You so rarely think of any of them, anymore.  
  
Until now, you haven’t paused to consider the things you miss in so long that you’d almost forgotten you missed anything at all. Cheeseburgers, Netflix, speaking with your family. Living a life relatively free of worry. You’re not sure when the sting of missing those things lessened to the point that you no longer noticed them, but somewhere along the line, that had been exactly what had happened.  
  
Because now, you have _him_.  
  
But as caught up as you are in the conversation at hand, you’re not really thinking about Bucky at that exact moment.  
  
Time passes and you don’t realize that you’re both laughing just a little too loudly at one another’s jokes or that you’re finding yourself caught up in remembering what life was like _before._ He’s leaning a bit too forward on his elbows, smiling just a touch too brightly, but you assume he’s just showcasing All American friendliness –  Until he says something that snaps you back to reality.  
  
“I’m in town for a few days still, if you’re not busy after you get out of here,” he offers with a clearing of his throat, pale cheeks reddening slightly with the awkward offer as he places a sizeable tip underneath the empty mug.  
  
Suddenly, you’re back to the present.  
  
This man – still almost a boy – with the dark eyes and the lightest blonde hair you’ve ever seen, has not been having the same friendly conversation with you that you’ve been having with him. The realization causes a hitch to form in your throat, your own cheeks flushing to match his; how could you have been so blind?  
  
“I’ve really got to get home after my shift,” you dismiss the invitation. You can’t tell him that you’ve got someone – _boyfriend_ sounds so silly and trivial, doesn’t it? – waiting for you at home, lest you risk the chance of him following you there. You can’t mention Bucky ( _oh god, Bucky_ ) whatsoever, for obvious reasons. Vigilance is tedious but necessary.  
  
“Oh, okay,” he sounds dejected and you feel guilty at encouraging his optimism. But he seems more stubborn than you’d initially expected, smile prevailing as he rises to his feet and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Can I come by and see you tomorrow, same time?”  
  
It’s flattering – you can’t deny that much – that some young American kid is so stricken with you that he’s willing to come back and throw down money on this swill you pass off as coffee, but it’s not right. You already have a swell of guilt in the pit of your stomach at entertaining the flirtatious banter the way you have, never pausing to consider what it must have looked like to anyone watching or whether Bucky would be happy to overhear the conversation.  
  
**(** _You know he wouldn’t and that fact alone makes your stomach a lead weight of guilt_ **)**  
  
“Actually, I’m not working tomorrow,” a lie, but easier than attempting to explain that you’d simply allowed being a little homesick to override your better judgment. Had you not been blinded by bonding over a shared American upbringing, momentarily set to ‘too bubbly’ by memories, you would have spotted the telltale signs of flirting, right away.  
  
And you would have stopped it, because at the end of the day, no one could draw your eye away from what you had waiting for you in the solace of your apartment. You didn’t want blonde hair or dark eyes, too partial to the chestnut waves and deep blue pools you’d been wading in for so long, the thought of returning home to that familiarity making your stomach flop anxiously.  
  
“You’ve got a boyfriend, don’t you?” the stranger sighs, smiling ruefully but knowingly all the same.  
  
Was it that obvious? You suppose it must be. You can’t see it yourself, but your eyes always soften up and take on a far away look to them when your mind wanders to Bucky. You demure, eyes scrutinizing the counter rather than meeting the other’s.  
  
“Ah, well. You’re still cute, though,” he gives up with a chuckle, shoulders rising and falling in a shrug as he makes his exit. It’s just a wasted hour or so with a waitress in a Romanian diner; nothing to get bent out of shape over. You wish you could say the same, that there isn’t a metric ton of blame weighing on you for even briefly thinking the thoughts that had run through your mind.  
  
You worry your lip as you watch the stranger – the two of you never even exchanged names, you realize – head out into the darkness of the street.  
  
Walking out that door is the living representation of all the things you’ve very willingly given up: a life shared by six-feet-something of youthful ambition, likely no war with his own mind, the utter personification of averageness and as plain as sliced bread. That life would be simple, uncomplicated.  
  
What is waiting for you at home is darker, more cloaked and shrouded in mystery. It’s a life you know will never be easy or carefree and no one has ever misled you into thinking otherwise.  
  
You would be the worst sort of liar if you denied to yourself pondering for a moment the pros and cons of each life, though you would never admit as much aloud.  
  
In the end, you’re walking the familiar streets home with a quickness in your step, searching the apartment with urgency as soon as you’re inside. You find him lounging on the bed, a worn novel clutched in his hands and a little ‘ _v’_ of concentration formed between his eyebrows. Your heart skips several beats as he looks up at you and a warm smile tugs at the corners of his lips. Anything you may have been questioning is drowned out by the flood of awe that washes over you when you remind yourself that you come home to  _this_ , every day.  
  
“Hey you,” he greets you simply.  
  
You say nothing, shrugging off your jacket before falling onto the mattress beside him, carefully moving the book from his hands as you find your place against his chest. Blue eyes widen a little in surprise; you’re not always so silent and immediately affectionate after a long day, though he’s far from complaining.  
  
You tilt your head up and tug his down to bring your lips together, confirming what you already know to be true – _this_ is the only thing you really want. You’d be a fool to think otherwise, though maybe today had been a good reminder of exactly what you had.  
  
“What’s this about?” he wonders, curious but almost reluctant to even ask at all.  
  
“I just love you so much, Buck. It was a long day,” you tell him truthfully, threading your fingers through the waves of his hair.

He smiles, still a touch confused but nonetheless warmed by your words. He pressed another kiss to your forehead and laughs softly as he closes his arms more securely around you.

  
“Well, I love you, too.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to bbbarnes for the comment, to everyone reading, bookmarking, and leaving kudos! It makes my heart super happy that you guys are digging this.


	4. Ultimatum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is tired of being your second choice, your go-to option when your beau is away, and he offers you a choice you're unprepared to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anon, this is out of the previous few chapter's universe of living in Romania with Bucky. Place this in whatever timeline you'd like as the details were not as important as the emotion of the story. Thank you to all who are commenting, reading, leaving kudos, etc.! Let me know what you think.

You suppose part of you always knew this day was looming on the horizon, even if you had chosen to ignore it.  
  
You’d spent so long hoping that it could continue just as it was indefinitely that you’d almost begun to delude yourself into thinking that was even a remote possibility, as though maybe he really _wouldn’t_ one day say the words that were now tumbling from his lips —

 _“It’s him or me.”_  
  
It was a foolish hope and somewhere deep inside, you’ve always known that. You aren’t callous enough to believe the former assassin does not have feelings; he is, after all, a real person. You’d just always told yourself that if it came down to this, you’d simply be able to walk away. You were never supposed to develop any sort of emotional attachment for the man.  
  
You belong to someone else and he’s known that from the start. You whispered it in some sort of vain attempt at pretending to resist the first time his lips met yours, but you’d both decided it didn’t matter. What happened between you when your ‘other half’ was away stayed between you when he returned, and so it manages to be each time you found yourself with a few spare moments.  
  
You don’t know when you became the sort of person who would ever do such a thing, but somewhere along the line, you obviously had. Or you’d simply fallen for the would-be soldier’s charm in a way that made you forget the morals you’d once held so tightly, which was not at all a difficult task.

And now, he’s standing in front of you — dark hair pulled back in a low bun, black clothing accentuating the paleness of his skin and making those damned serious, pained eyes stand out all the more. The look on his face is taking no prisoners, the aching expression written there too heartbreaking to even register properly.  
  
“Bucky, please,” you try weakly, wrapping your arms around yourself. You can’t deal with this, not now.  
  
“Don’t ‘ _Bucky, please_ ’ me,” he dismisses your attempt, shaking his head. “I don’t want to do this anymore, the sneaking around, the sharing you with him. I just – I can’t.”  
  
His tone is harsh and it makes you shrink, more from the guilt that weighs down your shoulders when you realize how _pained_ he sounds underneath the alpha-male bravado. You wonder briefly if there’s more to his ultimatum than simply the caveman mentality of a reluctance to share, but you bite back the thought; you can’t allow yourself to believe Bucky has feelings for you that go beyond the physical.  
  
“You knew what this was,” you deflect, eyes falling on anything – anything at all to keep you from having to look into his.   
  
“Yeah, until it _wasn’t_ , anymore.” He won’t allow you the pass of missing his gaze, moving closer until you have no option to look elsewhere.   
  
“You don’t love him. We both know you don’t, or you wouldn’t be here with me,” he continues, that hard set to his jaw never budging an inch. He’s not soft or gentle at the moment, all determination and pain mingling with some surge of confidence in him that you’ve never seen.  
  
You bite your lip, telling yourself to ignore the way your heart falls out of rhythm when you’re made to look into those eyes, that familiar flip of your stomach when you notice the strand of hair that’s pulled loose from his hair tie. You don’t know how to look at him and convincingly insist you were in love with someone else.  
  
You’ve turned the situation over in your mind more times than you can count, lying awake in your bed, consumed with guilt. It can’t work with Bucky, it just… _can’t._ It isn’t because of who he is or what he’s done, which you know he would never believe, but rather because of the risk involved. You’ve built a life for yourself, with the help of someone who is not him. Your name sits next to someone else’s on the lease for your downtown loft, you share a bank account. There’s logistics involved, complications to consider.  
  
And when it comes down to it, you’re _scared_.  
  
Bucky isn’t safe — literally or as a turn of phrase. He’s not average and has no chance or even any aspirations of being that way. He’s some sort of fringe member of the Avengers, for God’s sake; life with him would never be easy or protected.   
  
“We don’t have to do this,” you make one last ditch effort at diffusing the situation, talking him down from the game changing conversation you _really_ do not want to have.  
  
A noise of frustration escapes his lips and his fist collides with the wall to his side as he backs away from you. Blue eyes are hooded for a moment as he attempts to collect his anger, remember the coping mechanisms and that hokey, new age meditation shit that he’s been practicing with Sam. You can tell this from the purse of his lips as he inhales and exhales methodically twice before speaking again, each word clear and controlled.  
  
“Yes, we do. Because I can’t do _this_ ,” he motions in the distance between you, “anymore. You’re here and then you’re gone, the second Whatshisname rolls back into town, and I know you don’t want to be.”  
  
Defiance boils in your blood and your eyes narrow at him, slightly.  
  
“You don’t know what I want,” you insist, sounding more like a petulant child than you’d like to admit.  
  
“Like hell I don’t,” he all but purrs, accepting the challenge of your rebelliousness brilliantly as he closes the space between the two of you in a heartbeat. His hands find the curve of your waist, holding you gently in place as he stares a hole through you.  
  
“You want to be here with me, and not just when he decides to go — where was it this time, Florence? Sweden?”   
  
His tone is mocking and it causes a ruddy flush of frustration to color your cheeks. You know your relationship isn’t the norm, that your partner is supposed to _value_ spending time with you, but he seems keen to take any and every opportunity to leave the country on ‘business’. You’ve never once been invited, nor does he even share pictures upon his return. Your relationship exists only within the confines of the city limits, it would seem.  
  
“You leave, too,” you defend your wounded pride. Bucky is gone from time to time on missions, small and usually relatively local, with just as little information about the trips. It doesn’t happen frequently, but it happens often enough to merit mentioning.  
  
“Because I _have_ to, not because I _want_ to,” he says sharply. You’re selfishly a little pleased at getting a reaction out of him. “And all I can think about when I’m gone is getting back to you.”  
  
Your spite ebbs away just slightly, eyes widening at the confession. You have to fight the urge to kiss him squarely on the lips, knowing what it takes for him to be so vulnerable and forthright. Your eyes sting with tears, brought on by so many different aspects of the situation at hand. There’s no good outcome to having your delusions dashed, not so far as you can see.  
  
You swipe at your eyes in embarrassment, trying to hide your tears.  
  
“So, what do you want me to do, Bucky? I’ve been with him for three years. The apartment, my car — it’s just not as simple as you want it to be…” You’re losing ground, losing your ability to pretend the idea he’s suggesting is as insane as you want it to sound.  
  
“Because you’re making it complicated,” his voice is softer now as his hand cradles the side of your face, thumb brushing away a stray tear. “It doesn’t have to be, doll. You say the word and it can all be easy, just like this.”  
  
God, you’re melting, and it’s all his fault. The way his fingertips feel against your skin, the hint of a smirk in his voice when he calls you by that affectionate nickname, it’s all breaking down your defenses, leaving you vulnerable. You’re _this close_ to admitting a truth out loud that you’ve barely been able to admit to yourself until now. You swallow hard against the lump forming in your throat before speaking.  
  
“And if I don’t, you’re just gone?”   
  
He stares wordlessly for a long pause. He wants to tell you that he’s never been a man to share his girl with anyone, but he can’t in good conscience say that. He doesn’t know who he was before, what the confident young sergeant he once was would do in the shoes of the Bucky you now know, but he likes to think he's always been this self-assured. Truth is, he doesn’t even know if he’s as poised and sure about his ultimatum as he’s pretending to be right _now_ , praying to whatever God happens to be listening that you don’t call his bluff.  
  
Your heart refuses to beat properly as you wait for his response, searching his face for any early forecast of his next words.  
  
“Listen, here’s what I know — I know what I am, what I’ve done. I know I don’t _deserve_ you, and I’m a damned fool for it, but I know that I love you,” each word seems to be a monumental effort in opening up to you, “and I _know_ you love me, too.”  
  
“You what?” You blink at him and whatever ill-timed beat your heart was carrying on stops for a split second.  
  
“Love you. I know it and you know it. No point in pretending it’s some kind of secret,” he confirms, his turn to look away dawning finally.  
  
You can’t breathe in that moment, the swell of warmth that’s overtaken your heart crushing your lungs. This really _is_ it, the moment you’ve been dreading in which you have to decide between what you truly want and the creature comforts of the life you’ve known for so long now.  
  
Time spins in slow increments as you struggle for words. You’d always thought you’d know what to do when this time came, but the words that pass your lips are surprising, even to you.  
  
“You’re right. I… love you, too.”  
  
His eyes snap up to yours, wide and shocked as though he wasn’t anticipating that answer. Because, truthfully, he was not. You’ve got the American dream going for you, minus the picket fence and the two-point-five rugrats; he’s asking you to give that up for… whatever it is life with him could be called. Nothing in comparison, so far as he is concerned, aside from the fact that he's certain he can love you better.  
  
“Then make the right choice. Not the smart choice, not the easy choice, just the right one,” he implores you, fingertips curling slightly into your skin with nervous pressure.  
  
You close your eyes, screw them shut tightly against the mounting weight of making such a final and absolute decision on the spot, but you know in your heart that there is truly only _one_ right answer.  
  
“If it’s him or you, then it’s you, Bucky.”  
  
Because, really, it’s _always_ been him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of 'Ultimatum' in which you arrive at a social function on the arm of your significant other, only to find that Bucky is there as well. Dedicated to Katherine and Shelly, who both made requests. I hope I filled these correctly for the two of you, or at least got really close - enough so that everyone is happy!

You can scarcely believe you’re _here_ , of all the places on earth.

It isn’t the same sort of disbelief that many of the other attendees of the charity gala in the prestigious tower are likely feeling — you aren’t star struck by being inside Stark Tower, nor are there butterflies in your stomach at the fleeting chance that you might catch a glimpse of one of the famed Avengers.  
  
In fact, you’re hoping quite the opposite.  
  
You were going to tell him tonight that it was over, that you were eaten up with guilt and so _sorry_ for the person you’d turned into, but that there was someone else. You’d made up your mind and there was no changing it, but before you’d been able to get the words out of your mouth, he’d announced that he had a big surprise for you.  
  
And so, you’ve ended up here, surrounded by half the city, in honor of some children’s cancer research committee. Tony Stark’s annual good deed, complete with enough booze to separate the upper crust from a sizable portion of their wallet’s contents. You’ve somehow ended up here when you know you should have been home, discussing the proper way to go about dividing assets, dissolving a life.  
  
What’s worse, you know there’s a slim chance _he_ might be here somewhere, too — Bucky.   
  
It doesn’t seem like his sort of event, too large a crowd, but if Captain America is in attendance, you can’t completely rule out that he’s been dragged along, too. He’s aware that the plan to have the conversation tonight went awry, but there’s been no answer to your message, only a _seen at 3:32_ notification in the thread.  
  
He’s aware that you have to do this with some measure of poise and tact, considering you’ve been the one being unfaithful for who knows how long anymore, but you strongly doubt he anticipated _this_ being the change of plans you mentioned.  
  
Even you’re not entirely sure how you ended up as the plus one on this ticket, or how Mark scored an invite, at all. You assume it’s something to do with his business; CEOs of other major companies seem to be in attendance, as well.  
  
You’re sweating bullets, fretting over what that’s doing to your makeup and wondering just how out of place you look as you try to pretend the floor length black gown is something you feel the least bit comfortable in. You’d be that much more comfortable if you were not perched on the arm of a man you were supposed to love, a man whose heart you have every intention of breaking as soon as the timing becomes a little more appropriate.  
  
“Calm down,” Mark whispers with a laugh, giving your hand a squeeze as he leads you through the main hall, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Not yet, but you’re keenly aware that you might do just that.  
  
Your eyes scan the endless crowd for that familiar face, more of a preemptive maneuver than a hopeful search. You beg the powers that be to _please_ let him have opted out, just this once, as you’re not entirely sure you can face him in your current situation.  
  
“I think I just need a drink,” you reply to your boyfriend’s reassurance, attempting to arrange your face into something that resembles a normal smile. Asking for a beverage of some sort will get him to leave your side for a few minutes, space being all you need to calm down, just a little.  
  
“Is that Spratley Pierce?” He’s ignoring your contribution to the conversation again, eye-stalking businessmen like some sort of lion on the hunt. He vaguely flaps a hand in the direction of the bar, barely glossing over the fact that you’ve spoken at all “Oh, right. It’s a cash bar, that way. I’ll be back in a few, okay, sweets?”  
  
And like that, you’re alone, clutching your purse as you watch him disappear to network.

You’re almost disappointed that it should be so easy, but you remind yourself quickly that it’s better that way. You don’t belong to him anymore, even if he doesn’t know this.   
  
Sighing and collecting your head, you decide to follow up on that drink idea, making your way through the crowd in the direction he’d indicated the bar was in. It’s like an oasis in the center of the desert when you finally glimpse it and although you’re usually not much of a drinker, you couldn’t be more relieved.  
  
“A white Russian?” you order dubiously, sliding the bartender several crisp bills with a grateful smile.  
  
“Is that supposed to be some sort of a joke?” a familiar voice nearly causes you to leap from your own skin, closer to your ear than you’d even registered anyone’s presence. Your heart is in your throat and suddenly, you can’t breathe because you know _exactly_ who that voice belongs to.  
  
“Just my favorite drink,” you murmur in response, attempting to call back your ability to speak.  
  
“Funny, because anyone else might think your _favorite_ is ‘Completely Aloof Narcissistic Businessman’. That’s what it looks like from over here, anyway” His displeasure is evident in his tone and he punctuates the sentence with a slow drink of some sort of dark liquor from the glass in his hand. You’re all too aware that he’s standing far too close, hovering just so that he isn’t pressed entirely against the length of your back, very much doing so on purpose.  
  
You pale visibly at the joke, which is not so much in humor as it is an accusation.  
  
“Anyone else would be wrong,” you insist over your shoulder, nodding in thanks as the drink is delivered into your waiting hands.  
  
“I take it you just didn’t find a chance to tell him,” he accuses, offering no extra room as you turn around, your back against the bar.   
  
He’s dressed somewhat differently than the rest of the crowd, a simple grey shirt and slacks, hair neatly tied back from his face. Your cheeks tinge pink for a moment as you realize you’ve spent just a little too long surveying how _handsome_ he looks when you should be indignant.  
  
You stare into your drink, wondering what it says about you that you feel that much more guilty to Bucky than to the man whose trust you’ve routinely betrayed without his knowledge.   
  
“He’s been back from Florence for all of seven hours, Bucky. Did you want me to _text_ it to him?”  
  
He knows you’re impatient with his accusations, but frankly, Bucky doesn’t care _how_ you could have gone about ending things — he’s more preoccupied with the neckline of the dress you’re wearing and how it stands at odds with his inability to lay even a finger on you given the size of your current audience.

“Is that how you do it, these days?” he grumbles with a shrug, taking a long sip of his drink.  
  
“Not after three years, it’s not. He deserves at least a conversation.”  
  
You’re sticking by your guns on this one, though you find it difficult to pretend you’ve been operating by much of a moral code. You toss back a fairly good drink from your own glass as you ponder how you’d even phrase an ‘ _I’m leaving you for a former super assassin_ ’ text.  
  
Bucky tilts his head as he scrutinizes your face, leaving you wondering what he’s thinking. He doesn’t keep you in suspense for long.  
  
“You sure you’re not just getting cold feet?”   
  
You can’t imagine how you’d get cold _anything_ with the way he draws his tongue across his lips and steps closer to you, much closer than is appropriate for a normal conversation between two people who shouldn’t even know one another. It’s impossible not to get lost in those distractingly blue eyes, offset by the grey of his shirt and the mischief and frustration mingling there.  
  
“No,” you finally manage, eyes still wide but serious as you shake your head. “Nothing’s changed, I still lo — everything is still going according to plan. Just… at a slower pace, is all.”  
  
And not even that, by much.  
  
You’ll tell Mark tonight, after the event, if he isn’t drunk by that point. You won’t wait out the weekend no matter what he has planned for the two of you — you make a vow to yourself.

“I can do slow,” he promises solemnly, wearing such an innocent face that he could put Boy Scouts across the nation to shame, even as he’s intertwining his fingers with your own. You don’t pull away and he _notices_. You know this because of the smirk he wears.  
  
Your hand drops his as though its painful to touch when a voice shatters the moment, sending your heart into your throat once more, though much less pleasantly so.  
  
_“There you are.”_  
  
You don’t have the faintest idea that Bucky has known all along that your _beau_ was strolling in your direction, that the former soldier has had a solid watch of the other man’s whereabouts the entire evening. Old habits die hard and he can’t help but scan the room for his target.  
  
An arm wraps loosely around your waist and it doesn’t belong to the man you wish it did. You’re greeted by the strong scent of brandy on his breath as his lips attempt to graze your ear, missing slightly and sloppily landing on your temple.  
  
You force a weak smile for his benefit, although your eyes are locked on Bucky’s. This is the absolute _last_ predicament you ever wished to find yourself in, and yet, here you are — the _three_ of you.  
  
“Are you going to introduce me to your friend?” Mark asks, well enough on his way to tipsy that he almost sounds genuinely unbothered.   
  
Your throat is dry and your mouth fails to function properly, so you settle for sipping at the second half of your drink to stall. Much to your chagrin, you find it unnecessary to form some sort of awkward introduction, because Bucky is doing it _for_ you.  
  
He's not smiling or diffident as he does this, all suavity and brash confidence as he slides his metal hand into Mark’s, shaking it with enough pressure that the wince on your significant other’s features is noticeable.   
  
“Bucky,” he presents himself, “Bucky Barnes.”  
  
“Mark Henderson,” is the dubious reply from the other man, who is attempting to stomach Bucky’s iron grip without pulling away.  
  
“A pleasure to meet you,” Bucky assures him with saccharine charm, finally relinquishing his death grip on the other man’s hand. He finishes his drink in one slow tilt, pushing between you and your bewildered partner to slam his glass upside down on the wooden lacquered bar top.  
  
“And it’s _always_ good to see you,” he adds in a purr that is just slightly too quiet for Mark to make out and far too seductive for you to want him to.

He adjusts the cufflinks on his shirt and gives a smile, his way of parting for the moment, though not before turning his gaze to you one last time.  
  
“I’ll let you two lovebirds be. You probably have a _lot_ to talk about.”  
  


  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, commenting, kudos giving, bookmarking, just - ugh, thank you. ❤️ You're all so wonderful. Please don't be shy - let me know what you're thinking, what you'd like to see, etc.!
> 
> (Also, there will likely be a part 3 to this, but I also have Shelly's other request of a flat out jealous Bucky to get to!)


End file.
